Karol was giggling wildly, hysterically, flying through the sky on wings of laughter.
"Higher, mam'chka, higher!"
Raven laughed with him, pushed harder, watched as he soared and fell through the starry night, his little clawed hands clinging to the chain-links of the swing. She was wearing the boring, brown-haired body of some suburban mother featured in a TV informercial for bleach she had seen once, a change that Karol had taken in his stride, having seen her performing such tricks before.
They had hustled down the midnight streets with Karol clutched to Mystique's belly, her arms wrapped concealingly around him in the form of a beige maternity coat. Only when they had reached the deserted park had she let him cut loose, put him down and let him explore what to any other kid would have been a rather disappointing collection of rusting municipal playthings – a squeaking roundabout, a rusting climbing frame, and the swingset. The climbing frame had posed no challenge at all to her child's amazing agility, and the squeak of the roundabout had frightened him a little – but the swingset captivated him completely. Although she knew they should go back home soon – before day broke, before Azazel woke and started to worry – she was having a hard time dragging him away, dragging herself away, from this extraordinarily ordinary moment – watching her son play.
"Karol, we have to go home soon. One more time, OK, then go back home." Karol swooped through the air away from her.
"Nyet! Nonononono! More swing!"
Reluctantly, Raven took a step back, let his momentum swing itself out. He turned in his seat, looked over his shoulder at her expectantly.
"Push, mam'chka? Push me!"
Raven put her hands on her hips, shook her head.
"Uh-uh, mister. It's time to go home now. Come on, get down. Let's go!"
Karol's lower lip projected, started to wobble ominously.
"No!"
Raven sighed, seized him under the armpits.
"Yes. Come on, you, let's go."
Karol struggled violently, jack-knifing his body, clinging to the swing's chains. As she pulled harder, he began to scream.
"NOOOOOO!"
Raven finally succeeded prising his fingers from the swing, and was just turning him in her arms to get a better grip when suddenly, her hands were closing on grey-blue smoke.
He was gone.
"Karol? Karol!"
Her own voice echoed back to her from every corner of the park, thin and hysterical with panic. She strained her ears for any sound, whirled in a circle.
"KAROL!"
Nothing. Not a giggle, not a cry. Raven repressed a whimper of panic. She made an erratic circuit of the little park, looking behind every trashcan, under every bush. Her heart was pounding, her breath coming in short, sharp little gasps.
Then the creak of the gate brought her whirling round in relief, and she saw her son – trembling, eyes wide and scared, held on the arm of a thin, rangy man in a black suit who had a cocked pistol casually pointed at the base of his tiny skull.
"Lost something?"
Raven kept trying to think, trying to make a plan, to think of something that could get them out of this. But her brain felt like ice, frozen and slippery, dissolving into liquid panic every time she looked at her terrified little boy, sat stiffly on the lap of one of their captors, the gun still held to his head.
The broken nose wasn't helping; it had been stupid, making that lunge for Karol – she should have noticed the other two men in the shadows. The pain of the blow connecting had almost shocked her out of her disguise, and even now she was struggling to hold it as the cracked bone throbbed and the blood trickled down her upper lip into her mouth.
But she had to hold it together; if they knew what she was, then they were all as good as – worse than – dead. At the moment, the only thing she had going for her was that they thought she was Azazel's human lover – or "mutant-fucking slut" as they would have it – rather than his mutant accomplice. They had questioned her relentlessly – about Azazel, about Erik, and about the blue shapeshifter who had been with them in Dallas and Florida – but Raven had just cried and played dumb and begged them to let her and her baby go. So far they seemed to be buying it; but they wouldn't let either of them go. And she knew all too well why; a terrified human woman, her helpless mutant baby – they weren't the prize here. They were the bait.
"Ah, so here they are. Well done, Mr. Albert. So much more efficient working with the CIA than with the military. So much less messy. Barely a scratch on either of our subjects. Bravo."
Raven jerked in the grip of one of her captors to see the source of this new voice, was yanked cruelly round again to face the room. She felt her muscles surge, felt how easily she could throw the burly agent into the wall, itched to do it – but knew she could not. Karol would pay the price. She stared ahead, could do nothing but wait for trouble to come and find her.
A tiny man with a thick brown moustache walked into her line of vision, looked her up and down.
"And what have we here?" he asked rhetorically.
"She came out of his apartment with this," the man holding Karol supplied, eyeing the little boy distastefully. "She must have been living with the target or something – if this is her kid. It's definitely his." He roughly yanked Karol's tail out from between his legs, stretched it out so the little man could see. Karol whimpered, and Raven winced.
The little man approached Karol, clearly fascinated.
"Astonishing. All the juvenile subjects we've discovered so far have been much more humanoid in appearance – often the special traits don't come to light until much later, in adolescence. The target and his offspring represent a surprisingly pure form of the mutation. He will make an excellent subject for study-"
"NO!"
Raven was struggling in her captor's arms, fighting to get to Karol without revealing her true nature.
"Leave him alone! He's just a baby!"
Her panic broke Karol; he began to cry plaintively, and the little man frowned fussily.
"Really my dear, there's no need for all that. I wasn't referring to the infant. Although goodness knows I'd like to investigate him properly, sometimes one must make sacrifices for a larger goal. Although your – offspring - is fascinating, he is far more valuable to me as a bargaining chip than a subject. Like you, he will serve to bring me something I am unable to secure without you, even with the resources at my disposal – the cooperation of your red friend."
Raven went cold at the confirmation of her worst fears.
"You want Azazel."
The little man smiled primly and nodded.
"Just so, my dear. And you are going to give him to me. His unique abilities render him unassailable in any conventional sense. The only way to capture him is to have something he values more than his own skin. I do so hope that's you and your son, my dear – because if I can't tame the tiger, I'll have to make do with the tiger's cub."
The phone rang and rang. Raven was sure that Azazel must be there – when he woke to discover them gone, he would have been frantic, but he knew better than to run around the city looking for them in broad daylight. She could only imagine what the waiting had been doing to him. But even now, he was cautious. The phone of their apartment never rang; nobody knew their number. She could imagine him stood over the receiver, hesitating, desperate for news but wary of a trap. She knew him though; when faced with the choice between doing something and nothing, he would always choose action. Finally she heard the line open.
He said nothing. She could hear him breathe, short, uneven breaths, waiting. She looked up into the encouraging eyes of the little man, cut her gaze to Karol and the gun at his temple, felt a wave of such helpless hatred she almost cried. She swallowed hard.
"Its me. They have me. Both of us. I'm so sorry."
She heard him let out a hiss between his teeth as his worst imaginings were confirmed.
"Gde?"
She looked at the little man. "He wants to know where we are."
He reached out a hand imperiously for the receiver.
"Hello, Mr– Azazel, is it? My name is Trask. Your friend can't tell you where she is, I'm afraid, because she doesn't know. I fear if she did, you might come here by your own unorthodox means and make rather a scene."
Trask held the receiver slightly away from his ear, and Raven could clearly hear Azazel unleash a stream of incoherent invective in mangled English and Russian. Trask tutted.
"There's no need for threats, which I'm sure you must see do not serve your cause at this moment. We have your son; we have your human friend. But it's you we want, Mr. Azazel. All you have to do to keep them safe is to submit."
There was a long, long silence. And then, a single word.
"Kak?"
Trask beamed.
"I'm so glad you asked. If you were to go to your kitchen window, Mr Azazel – although I appreciate that this might not be something you are in the habit of doing – you would see two of our agents sitting in a parked grey van across the street. You will come down – discreetly, if you can please – and they will show you a polaroid picture of your son, just to confirm to you that this is not a trick.
"You will then allow them to put a hood over your head and get into the back of the van; we won't insult you be insisting on handcuffs or such paraphernalia – rather pointless under the circumstances, I'm sure you'll agree. Please understand that any attempt to take our agents hostage, or to attempt some sort of ill-advised rescue effort, would be utterly futile – you may be extremely fast, but I doubt even you can beat a bullet fired point blank at close range.
"You will be brought to my facility, where you will then submit yourself to my charge. Then and only then you may watch via Closed Circuit TV link as your companion leaves the center with your son. Please be aware that they will continue to be under close surveillance by our people from now on – should your co-operation waver at any point, in the slightest degree, I am afraid their lives will be forfeit.
"Do we understand each other, Mr Azazel?"
Raven heard Azazel mutter something, and Trask gave a small laugh.
"How do you know you can trust me? Well to be frank, Mr Azazel, you cannot. All you can do is hope. But I can promise you, if you don't do exactly as I say, your son will suffer for it. Goodbye now."
And with that, Trask hung up the telephone.